How long has it been since the nation’s grubby capital streets have had a band that called fans to their side like a group denim-clad Pied Pipers, a pint and a fag in one hand and a guitar in the other? Has the South gone soft in the face of the constant tide of anthems from gritty Northern towns? One might think so but for the emergence of The Cavaliers with their infectious sweep of indie-pop and charm-the-pants-off-you mentality.

The Salisbury raised Maff (vocals), Rob (bass), Brad (guitar) and Russ (drums) have adopted London as their home, settling themselves into the East End with ease and swagger after conquering their hometown’s two venues and finding themselves more frequently drawn to the city by constant gigging and a growing mob of followers.

Like any band, their history is littered with name and line up changes but it’s truly rare for a band to split up only to have the fickle fist of fate nudge them back together. Called The Kites, then changed to Mr Kite and back again, with Brad and Maff having a falling out, it seemed that the band were destined to fail before they’d achieved much. It was only when Maff returned to Salisbury from his studies in Bournemouth that the vocalist and guitarist patched up their differences and The Kites began once more.

It was Maff who found their new moniker – working in an auction house he encountered a painting of “cavaliers getting pissed up and it struck a chord with me. To be a cavalier is to be not arrogant but free in your opinions and views. The most important thing is to have a good time and enjoy life and not worry too much about anything else.”

Though originally inspired by the emergence of Oasis, The Cavaliers have a traditional list of inspirations that include The Kinks, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and The Mamas and The Papas. Not for them is this a clichéd who’s who to roll off the tongue but a nod to what truly matters to them – melody and verse. With this in mind, they are lavishly dismissive of a number of their contemporaries who have, according to Russ, their long-legged and outspoken drummer, better haircuts than they do songs.

Having already experienced the lows of the musician in the form of baked-beans-poverty, the highs of performing to packed venues, and lived together for a year in a house of mayhem in Dalston, The Cavaliers are constantly writing, perfecting their breezy, beautiful pop tinged scores overlaid with lyrics that reflect life’s adventures, like their Cyclops of a landlord, and the romance (“or lack of…”) encountered by their dandy, cheeky frontman.

The Cavaliers, who would rather play music to get girls dancing than leftfield songs that garner acclaim from dry purists, practise what they preach with joyous, jam packed choruses mixing the innocence of 50s British pop with the gutter-glamour of post-Libertine London.

The foursome are indeed ready to give a endearing wink and forceful shove to the generic wave of current bands that litter the charts… stand back, The Cavaliers have arrived.